"And so do I!" I howled. "He's plowing us smack-dab into Sol's gravitational clutch! Well, I don't want some! I have no ambition to become part of a sunspot!" "No-o-o," said Biggs thoughtfully, "that's one thing we don't have to fear. Gilchrist's mathematics are O.Q. Our velocity will be great enough to overcome Sol's gravitation." "But what are we going to do," I stormed, "about the heat? 6000° Centigrade ain't exactly what I consider a cool, refreshing climate!" "That's the trouble. I told him we'd be boiled like beans in a pot if we passed that near Sol, but he pooh-poohed my warning. Said our refrigerating system would keep us cool and comfortable." Biggs shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what to do, Sparks. After all, his word _is_ law." I moaned. "And how long," I asked, "before we begin to french-fry in our own carcasses?" "About five days, Sparks. Five or six days from the current--" He stopped suddenly. His pale eyes glowed. His larynx began leaping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. "_Current!_" he repeated. "But of course! _That's it!_" "'Scuse, please?" I demanded, puzzled. But Biggs shook me off with an evasion. "Not now, Sparks I can't tell you now. There's no sense in both of us getting in trouble. But I think I know a way to convince Major Gilchrist we must change our course." * * * * * So a couple of days skidded by, as days have a habit of doing. About the middle of the second day, Hanson came up to my turret looking as confused as a stork at the Old Maids' Home. He said, "Sparks, I been hearin' funny things--" "Your digestion?" I asked. "Or have you been dosing your asthma with that 90-proof cough-medicine again? That'll make you hear things and _see_ 'em too--" "That's enough," interrupted the Old Man coldly, "of them kind o' comments! What I been hearin' is bad. They's a rumor floatin' around that we're on a dead trajectory for Sol due to Major Gilchrist's course plottin'." "Oh, that?" I said. "Forget it, skipper. Mr. Biggs knows all about it. He's got ideas." "Well," said the skipper, relieved, "in that case, I guess everything's O.Q." And he waddled happily away. Which gives you some idea who's the real Master Mind on the _Saturn_. That very same night, Diane Biggs stopped me outside the Officers' Mess. "Sparks, have you seen Lancelot anywhere? I haven't laid eyes on him all day, and I'm worried." "You ought to know better than to fret wrinkles into your pretty brow over that one-man quiz program," I told her. "He's O.Q. Right now he's engaged in some mysterious project of his own devising. When last seen he was swiping generator supplies from the storeroom. Don't ask me why, because maybe I know the right answer, and I don't want to have to tell." "He--he's not going to get in any trouble, is he?"